


Marred And Feathered

by Salmon_Pink



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Costume Kink, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:12:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salmon_Pink/pseuds/Salmon_Pink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Tim gets his hands on the original Nightwing suit, he gets a little carried away admiring it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marred And Feathered

**Author's Note:**

> Set before Infinite Crisis, referencing [this moment](http://salmonypink.tumblr.com/post/16249540621/and-then-kory-made-tim-try-the-discowing-suit-on) from Teen Titans/Outsiders Secret Files And Origins 2005. Written for the [Robincest Meme](http://dcu-memes.livejournal.com/5941.html), [prompt](http://dcu-memes.livejournal.com/5941.html?view=580405#t580405) "Tim/Dick, Tim ends up with the original Nightwing suit somehow and then gets a little carried away as he admires it".

Tim thinks he should probably be embarrassed, and chances are once this is over and he manages to catch both his breath and his thoughts, he will be.

He was definitely embarrassed when he first opened the package, when he first read the note resting on the tissue paper concealing the carefully folded contents.

‘ _I thought you may wish to borrow this, Kory xxx_ ’

Tim’s always had the strangest impression that Kory can _smell_ sex in the air, although he’s never exactly plucked up the courage to ask for confirmation.

Still, it’s no surprise that Kory had realised just what he’d been thinking when he’d accidentally unearthed that particular box in her room.

He’ll need to work on bettering his control at …some distant point in the future that he can’t focus on right now.

Because right now, all he can focus on is the suit.

The Nightwing suit.

The _original_ Nightwing suit.

The original Nightwing suit, which Tim is currently _wearing_.

He stares at his reflection in the mirror, feeling like there are butterfly wings beating against the inside of his stomach. He’s light-headed with it, with the sight of it, feeling young and stupid and reckless. His hands seem to move without his permission, roaming over his chest, feeling the way the different coloured fabric joins together through the gloves, feeling the texture of the feathers.

His left hand slides up, thumb running along the edge of the collar. It’s not too tight against his throat or anything like that, but Tim is still _painfully_ aware of it, too high, too impractical. It’s always there at the edge of his peripheral vision, and it brushes his cheek when he turns his head.

He inhales deeply, but there’s only the smell of laundry detergent and dust.

But that’s fine, that’s okay, because Tim’s spent plenty of time around Dick, enough time to have a mental catalogue of the other man’s scents. It’s simple enough to pull the smell of Dick’s hair to the front of his mind, the night sky on his skin and coffee on his breath, and if Tim closes his eyes, just for a moment, then he can imagine those scents clinging to the fabric.

But he can’t _keep_ his eyes closed, not for long. Has to keep staring, right hand dropping lower, moving over patterns that seem to be arranged like an arrow pointing straight to his crotch. To _Dick’s_ crotch, and Tim’s so caught up in it, so caught up in the vision, that he doesn’t quite understand where that groan, low and needy, just came from until he feels another soft sound bubbling in his throat.

The suit is too big for him. That’s to be expected, of course. Dick has several inches on him. The fabric is wrinkled around his ankles, and his hands slide slightly inside the gloves. But that just makes it _better_ , because those aren’t really his hands, not the right size, and Tim’s fingers feel disconnected and unreal as they move.

Not Tim’s hand that drags across his stomach, not really. Not Tim’s hand that darts down to squeeze between his legs, and this time there’s no missing the loud, shaky moan that escapes Tim’s lips.

Almost _surprised_ by the action, by the way his cock, hard and throbbing, is palmed and cupped, but that’s right, of course he’s surprised, because those aren’t _his_ hands.

They’re _Dick’s_ hands. Moving with Dick’s spontaneity, his directness.

Dick’s hand, pressing the heel of his palm over Tim’s balls, before sliding up, feeling the heat of his shaft through the thin material.

Dick would have worn a jock under the suit, of course he would have. But in the mirror, the material clings to the upward curve of Tim’s cock, the shape of it clearly visible, and there’s the slightest dark patch forming where Tim’s leaking precome, navy blue material turning pitch black.

Tim wavers a little on the spot but somehow manages to keep his legs under him.

It’s getting confusing now, trying to keep up with the fantasy. Dick’s hands, Dick’s body, but it’s Tim feeling the sensation of it, feeling the way that palm is rubbing him now, rhythm rushed and urgent. It’s Dick who squeezes and strokes, because Dick wouldn’t keep him waiting, Dick’s good to him like that, and Tim can’t keep the noises back now, tiny little whimpers and moans on every breath.

The suit might be too long in the body, but it’s not as loose as Tim might have thought, if he’d ever let himself think about the idea of it. Especially around the shoulders - still in his teens at the time, Dick had been more lithe, not quite as broad as he’s become. But it’s still loose _enough_ , loose enough that when Tim’s fingers dip down to follow the line of his collarbone, the material shifts and sags and gapes. And there’s a glimpse of Tim’s nipple, pebbled and hard, and Dick’s hand reacts by shoving the material further out of the way. Pushing and pulling it against Tim’s neck, until his fingers can reach inside and pinch at the pink, peaked flesh, and Tim lets out a rough grunt as his legs finally give out.

His knees hit the ground hard, but he doesn’t even feel it.

His reflection stares back at him from the mirror, and there wasn’t a mask in the box so Tim improvised with one of his own. The green is all wrong, but with his hair flopping forward like this, sticking to his face like this, it’s easier to imagine. Easier to see _Dick_ in the mirror, hand reaching out to touch, mouth open and panting and lips so wet and inviting.

Tim groans, and pulls his hand back, shoves two fingers into his mouth.

The gloves don’t taste like Dick until he tells his mind that they do, and then he whines and sucks and licks and works his own mouth, cutting off every half-formed sound.

It’s easy now, too easy, to imagine Dick on his knees. Young, though not as young as Tim, eyes wide and dark, mouth hungry for Tim’s cock, and Tim gasps and thrusts up against the hand still rubbing him through the suit.

Or maybe it would be Tim on his knees, Dick’s hand twisted in his hair as he fucked Tim’s mouth open, and Tim lets his teeth scrape over his fingers as he pulls them almost free, before roughly thrusting them back into his mouth.

Dick’s hand is insistent between his legs, and Tim always knew he wouldn’t last for this, if he was ever allowed to have it. The rhythm doesn’t fit quite right - hard, steady thrusts into his mouth, quick, desperate motions over his cock, pulling the material so it gathers and drags and makes him pant around his fingers. It’s undoing him, and Tim wants this to go on forever, but it’s already too late.

He can feel his cheeks burning, and in the mirror Dick stares back at him, flushed and wanton. Hips thrusting up, knees spread wide, and Tim has to struggle to keep his eyes open, to keep _seeing_. Seeing Dick bite down lightly on the fingers that are taking his mouth, seeing Dick’s chest shudder and heave as he gasps for breath, seeing him buck for the feeling of it.

And then the fingers slide away from Dick’s lips, leaving them glistening with saliva and Dick _smiles_ at him, wild and fierce and utterly free.

Tim keens, and in the mirror Dick’s back arches at an almost inhuman angle, and together they whine and gasp and come, the Nightwing suit stretching and pulling around them.

The first thing Tim’s really aware of when the lust-fog of his mind begins to clear is the damn collar, framing the edge of his vision.

There’s only him in the room, him and his reflection and a suit that isn’t his.

A suit that Tim’s just _defiled_ , and he’s expecting embarrassment to catch up to him, but instead he gets hit with a wave of heat so hard and fast that he has to push his palm down between his legs and just _breathe_ for a moment.

The suit is sticky and wet against him, and it should probably feel disgusting, but instead Tim hears himself whimper. Hips pushing up against his hand, even though it’s too soon to be getting hard again, even though it _hurts_ to be getting hard again.

He wonders just how long it will be until Kory asks for the suit back.

Tim stares down at his thighs, at the navy blue fabric, and shivers.

In the mirror, he can feel eyes on him, _Dick’s_ eyes, and he just knows Dick is grinning and waiting for _more_.


End file.
